


Faithful Friends

by Thistlerose



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're stranded on an ice planet, in a <i>tomb</i>, for crying out loud, with injuries, limited supplies, and malfunctioning communicators.  It's still the best Christmas Jim's ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faithful Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Верные друзья](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2480531) by [Skata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skata/pseuds/Skata)



> Thank you to Ayaerhis and Abigail89 for beta reading.

Jim drifted in and out of consciousness. Images, sounds, and sensations flashed through him and around him, then faded before he could make sense of them. He half-dreamed he was still falling, only this time there was no hard, cold ground waiting for him. He just fell and fell in an avalanche of snow and ancient stones, not through space but through time. That was his destiny, to fall forever; Future Spock and Admiral Pike were going to be so disappointed. Bones would have to tell them.

Bones _was_ telling them. Telling Spock, anyway. Jim could hear them arguing from what seemed like a great distance. Bones would say nice things about him, he knew, things he probably didn't deserve, but wanted to hear anyway.

Eventually, the voices stopped.

"I'm sorry," Jim said, even though he'd obviously fallen so far that no one could hear him. "I'm so sorry."

"Easy, kid. Easy. I'm here. Don't try to move."

"Bones?"

"You expecting somebody else?"

It was the sheer dryness of his tone that convinced Jim he'd fallen as far as he was going to, at least for the time being, and could open his eyes. As soon as he did, though, he realized he was still in some trouble.

"Um. World's all fuzzy." The thickness of his voice worried him, but only in a detached sort of way. He tried to make each word come out crisp and precise, but they slid into each other, making him feel clumsy and stupid. Also, his chest felt strangely tight. "Wasn't fuzzy when I fell through it. Was sharp. An' hard. Bones?" He felt the cold trickle of panic in his belly. It got a whole lot colder as he realized that that was about _all_ he could feel. "_Bones?_"

"Shh." Abruptly, Jim's vision was filled with a Bones-colored blur. "How much do you remember?"

Jim tried to think, but he was troubled by the softened angles of Bones's jaw line and eyebrows. He wanted to touch them, make sure they looked blurry because _he_ was hurt, not because something had happened to Bones.

He got one hand about half-raised. Bones caught it and held on. "Focus, Jim," he said, and his voice was as sharp as it was supposed to be, so Jim relaxed – slightly. "Come on. Do you remember what we're doing here on this godforsaken snowball?"

Tendrils of memory came back to him. "S'ploring," he said. "Ruins. Z'temple, w'stones that … " He frowned. He and Spock and McCoy had been exploring the ruins of an ancient temple, and the flagstones – which had looked sturdy – had given way beneath him. "I fell."

"That's right, Jim. That's good. I was afraid there might be some memory loss from the concussion, but no, that's right. That's part of the reason you're feeling kind of muzzy – the concussion. Mostly, it's because I gave you a pretty strong painkiller." He patted Jim's hand. "You fractured your right femur. Not a bad break, comparatively speaking, but I'll feel a helluva lot better when I've got you in a Sickbay bed."

"Usually do," Jim said weakly.

McCoy's lips quirked. "You're probably experiencing some tightness in your chest; that's because you also managed to break two of your ribs and puncture a lung. Again, nothing immediately life-threatening, but that sort of injury can get worse in a hurry, so I'd really like to get my hands on some proper medical equipment, not just what's in the first aid kit. Spock's gone to get help since we can't move you, and the snow and all these goddamn rocks are interfering with the communicators _and_ preventing Scotty from getting a lock on our positions. That's the situation, in a nutshell."

It took Jim a few moments to process all of that; the facts took their time moving down through the haze of drugs – and the haze from the concussion – to his brain. At length, he frowned. "That everything?"

"Well, no."

"Never is, is it?"

McCoy squeezed his hand. "It's actually not all bad, for once. You discovered a part of the temple we probably wouldn't have found otherwise. It's a burial vault – and we'll both refrain from making the obvious joke, thank you very much."

Jim smiled, albeit minutely. His vision was beginning sharpen, not that there was much to see from his perspective, and Bones's wry humor and the pressure of his hand were reassuring. If Spock had gone to get help, it was only a matter of time before they were rescued. He trusted his first officer and chief medical officer implicitly. Still, something troubled him. He felt like he was forgetting something: not anything important like his serial number or the _Enterprise_'s security codes. But it bothered him, and he found himself strangely reluctant to tell Bones. He didn't want to worry him when he had fractured femurs and punctured lungs to deal with, and something told him he should feel guilty for forgetting it – whatever it was.

"In any case," McCoy continued, his hand still gripping Jim's, "Spock seemed pretty excited about your discovery. Excited for a Vulcan, anyway, by which I mean, I think his eyebrows might've risen a millimeter or two higher than usual. There're some carvings, which you can't see – and don't even think of trying to get up and look – which he seems to think'll help us figure out where the sentient inhabitants of this world might've gone. I like it 'cause it's dry and out of the wind; I can heat up the stones with my phaser and not worry about melting the snow and flooding the place. Which is good because I have the fun job of keeping you warm and dry until Spock gets back with the shuttle. And don't start thinking," he went on, "that Spock was more concerned about some goddamn carvings than your wellbeing. He'll act like he was and I'll probably give him a hard time about it when we're back on the ship, but that's the truth. Don't tell him I said it."

"I know. I won't." Bones's defense of Spock amused him. They bickered almost constantly when they were together; alone, they were fairly respectful, even complimentary toward each other. Spock's motives mystified Jim; he could only assume it had something to do with his pride and professionalism. McCoy was more transparent; he'd latched onto this idea that Jim and Spock were destined for a friendship of epic proportions, because that was what it was like in an alternate history, and did what he could to foster it. "And I am," he added. "Warm."

"You should be. The phaser did a good job of heating those stones, and you've got a good-quality thermal blanket tucked around you. If you do start to feel cold, you tell me right away. Don't want you going into shock on me."

"Your hand's cold."

"That's just poor circulation. I'm always cold."

This was true, but Jim sensed there was something more at work in this instance. Aware that Bones was watching him intently, he strained to concentrate, and after a few moments it hit him. "Where's your jacket?"

"Don't you worry about that."

"But…" For the first time, it dawned on him that he wasn't lying directly on the floor, that there was something thick and soft pillowing his head and shoulders. "_Bones_." He felt like he'd been punctured a second time. Bones, Bones, Bones. "Get under the blanket," he said, trying to be stern and captainy; to his chagrin, it came out more like an entreaty.

"I'm fine."

"I don't care! You're no good to me or anyone if you're suffering from frostbite or hypothermia. Get under the blanket with me, McCoy. That's a fucking order."

Bones just looked at him, and Jim flushed with consternation that bordered on shame. God, he sounded so childish. But the idea that he was comfortable – relatively speaking: the tightness in his chest had sharpened with his outburst, had become more like actual pain – while his best friend suffered really rankled. For one thing, he didn't deserve that kind of sacrifice. For another – it was Bones.

Finally, because he couldn't stand the silence or the look Bones was giving him, "You're too fucking good to me. Always have been."

"Don't read too much into it, kid," McCoy replied in a clipped tone. "And you're in no position to give orders. As far as I'm concerned, Spock's acting captain until I clear you for light duty, and that's not gonna happen anytime soon. That said … how're you feeling?"

"Pissed off."

"Physically, Jim. Is your head starting to hurt at all?"

"No." Actually, it was, but he didn't want another shot of painkiller. He hated the way it fucked with his ability to think and reason. Pain didn't scare him. The lack of control did.

Bones was still giving him a funny look.

"Seriously," Jim said. "I've had much worse."

"Don't remind me. All right. I'll get under that blanket with you on the condition that you cut the bullshit and tell me the _second_ you start hurting. And by hurting, I don't mean agony; I mean: 'Doctor, I'm starting to feel slightly bad.' You should be due for another dose soon, but your body chemistry is … not like other people's, to say the least. So I'm gonna trust you, but you gotta be honest with me. You got that?"

Jim started to nod, but that hurt, so he said solemnly, "All right."

"All right." McCoy let go of Jim's hand, lifted a fold of the blanket, and crawled underneath it. He twisted onto his side, his body not quite flush with Jim's. Even without touching, Jim could feel the tension in him; he was like a drawn bowstring. Either he was really worried – which didn't seem likely, given the way he'd talked before – or more upset by Jim's behavior than he was willing to let on.

"Sorry," Jim began. "Didn't mean to—"

"S'all right. A concussion can make a person querulous. Or more so than usual." For a few seconds, McCoy's mouth seemed on the verge of smiling. Then it drooped, as did his eyelids. "Just gonna rest for a few minutes," he said, his voice getting lower, huskier. "Set my tricorder up to monitor your vitals. And to remind me when you're due for another hypo. Hope Spock gets back here soon."

After that, he was quiet and Jim lay very still, watching him. He was sorry for giving him a hard time. He didn't mean to. He didn't even dislike doctors, generally speaking. It was just that, for most of his life, he'd only had himself to rely on, and even after five years – three at the Academy, two as Captain of the _Enterprise_ \- he found the habit hard to break. He trusted his officers and crew, but something in him rebelled at the thought of letting go completely if he had some sort of choice. He _was_ sorry, because he knew his tendency to keep his own council when it came to his physical wellbeing annoyed Bones.

From their very first meeting, Bones had been trying to look after him. Jim smiled at the memory, though it pained him to acknowledge – always in secret – that he probably wouldn't have followed Leonard McCoy to the infirmary right after landing in San Francisco if the man hadn't been so obviously messed up. Not that he'd gone out of pity; the fact that McCoy, half-drunk, reeling from his recent divorce, pale and shaking after a relatively turbulence-free shuttle ride, had _still_ given a shit about Jim – who'd been pretty hungover himself, tired, bruised, and rather surly as a result – had intrigued him.

They were both givers, he'd learned, though in entirely different ways. McCoy gave with his heart; his _instinct_ was to give a shit. Jim gave physically – and not always with sex, thank you, though he knew he had that reputation. Had had. Captaining the flagship didn't leave him much time for romance, and he'd discovered – much to his surprise – that he really was too principled to sleep with his subordinates. So he gave in other ways. He tried to be accessible to his crew, offering his shoulder or his blood, as needed. It had been obvious, as they'd disembarked that shuttle five years ago, that Bones needed something broken to fix. What else could Jim do but offer himself?

_What else could I do?_

He frowned thoughtfully at the lowered eyelids, the relaxed brows, and the curling, dark lashes. No, he decided, his self-assessment had to be wrong; if he were really that generous, he wouldn't resist Bones so much, and Bones wouldn't always seem so annoyed with him. Maybe some part of him sensed that Bones didn't need him the way he had in their early days at the academy?

That idea gave him a pang, and was followed swiftly by a flush of shame. He couldn't be a very good friend if that was really how he felt. He wasn't even sure that it was. It was just that…

His head, he noticed, was starting to throb. His leg, too. Bones had obviously bound it and splinted it somehow, but – yeah, ow. He tried to breathe deeply, but the broken ribs and punctured lung made that pretty fucking painful as well.

_I should wake him up. I really should. Ow, fucking ow._

But a reluctance that had little to do with self-reliance seized him. Bones looked so _peaceful_, so untroubled. If Jim woke him up, he'd have to deal with the fact that they were still stuck on an ice planet, in a _tomb_, for fuck's sake, awaiting rescue. And that wasn't fair, not when Jim was in no immediate danger, and not when it was…

And suddenly he remembered the thing he'd forgotten earlier.

_Not when tomorrow's Christmas, and he's going to have to spend it in Sickbay, putting me back together. Aw, fuck, Bones._

Jim was amazed he hadn't brought it up during his harangue. Then again, Bones could be bitchy, but he was rarely petty, even when he and Spock were taking each other down. He probably considered a dig about Christmas to be too low. He'd obviously forgotten that Jim didn't really give a crap about the holiday, that he hadn't had a _good_ Christmas since he was six, before his mom married his stepfather and re-enlisted in Starfleet.

Bones, Bones, Bones.

Still, he couldn't help smiling at his friend's protectiveness. The reminder that Bones was looking out for him emotionally as well as physically was the best present he could imagine at the moment. The least Jim could do was let him have his nap. Bones's lips were still curved downward, but Jim was pretty sure it was the gentlest frown he'd ever seen.

_So, you're not dreaming about me, huh?_

He wanted to touch those lips.

There was a beat.

Wait.

Wait.

While he stared, stricken, at his best friend, his mind and his heart had a brief consultation:

_Really,_ said one, _him?_

_Really,_ replied the other, with the precision and finality of a sword stroke. _Him_.

He felt ambushed. Ensnared, then laid bare. He couldn't fucking _breathe_.

He'd been attracted to men before. Not often, but there'd been a few: Brett from the debate team in high school, Gary at the academy, a couple of random guys he'd met in bars. He'd had all of them, and, for the most part, he'd enjoyed it; Gary especially had been able to wring orgasms from him. Come to think of it, he hadn't been with a man since Gary, who'd died on the _Farragut_ two years ago.

Anyway, why was he even thinking about those guys? This was nothing like those times. This was… Well, okay, sure, part of it had to be physical. Bones was handsome; Jim had never been in any denial about that. And yeah, there'd been times at the academy when he'd been so horny, or so high on his own fucking achievements that it had been in his mind to just grab Bones and kiss him because he'd needed an outlet and Bones had been there. But he'd held back.

And this, he knew, was different from those times as well.

For a second, he felt irrational anger toward Bones, who'd caught him like this: wounded, off his guard. He hadn't even been looking for…

What? Love?

Jim swallowed, and as swiftly as it had overtaken him, his anger abated. _Yeah,_ he thought, warmth pooling in his chest, _love_. And why not Bones? He was already just about everything Jim could possibly think to look for in a friend. Why not a lover?

Why not? And just like that, he surrendered. He'd finally found his no-win situation; Spock, he thought wryly, would be so pleased. In the meantime, he was alone on an ice planet, in a fucking _tomb_, with the person he loved. And it was Christmas Eve.

Jim touched two fingertips to his own lips. Then, with infinite care, he extended his arm and touched those same two fingertips to Bones's lips.

Something beeped nearby. McCoy's eyes opened. He blinked at Jim's hand in front of his face and frowned in obvious confusion. "What the…? Why's it so fucking cold? Heating system break down again? What's that beeping?"

"I think it's your tricorder," said Jim, withdrawing his hand quickly.

Bones pushed himself up onto his elbows and groped around on the floor beyond Jim's line of vision. "Huh," he said. "Your heart rate's accelerated." He glanced over his shoulder at Jim. "How you feeling?"

_God, where do I begin?_

"Talk to me. How's your head? The leg starting to hurt? Your breathing—"

Looking him in the eye, Jim said, "You've been holding out on me, Leonard McCoy."

For a moment, the broad shoulders stiffened, and Jim knew everything, absolutely everything. And yeah, that explained a few things, like the handholding, the reluctance to get under the blanket with him, and the tension once they were lying side by side. Hell, even the pushing of his friendship with Spock, as if it were a shield he could hide behind, or a camouflage. _Sneaky, Doctor McCoy. Very sneaky._ He felt like crowing. Instead, he said, "I remembered what day it is. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"Shit happens," said Bones in far-too-neutral a tone. "Even on Christmas Eve. Worked plenty of holiday shifts, before. Don't feel bad about it. It's not like you got drunk and caused an accident, or electrocuted yourself trying to get your goddamn lights set up."

"Yeah, that's true. I just fell through the floor, like an idiot. Anyway…" He had so many questions, like when the hell Bones had fallen in love with him, and how in the hell he'd managed to keep it secret when he went around with his goddamn heart on his sleeve. Instead, since it was Christmas Eve, he decided to give Bones a gift, and since a kiss was unfortunately out of the question, at least for the moment, he settled for what his friend would probably consider the next best thing: something he could fix.

"My head hurts," he admitted. "A lot. And my leg. And my side. And it hurts when I breathe. Could you…?"

"Yeah, of course," Bones said, and there was relief in his tone. "Just hang on a sec."

The last things Jim felt before losing consciousness again were the coolness of the hypospray against his neck, and Bones's hand gripping his shoulder.

*

When Jim awoke again, he knew right away that he was on the _Enterprise_; the silence had a quality that he'd long ago come to associate with home. He was in a bed in Sickbay and the lights were low, so the ship was probably on its night cycle. He was clean and warm and free of pain. The tightness in his chest had been replaced by a sort of floaty lightness that made him feel like he was full of soap bubbles. He giggled at the image. Which meant that he was actually full of drugs. Good drugs. He giggled again, because the sound of it amused him.

"Welcome back," Bones said from his chair by the bed. "I was close to giving up."

The giggle fit died abruptly. Jim turned his head against the pillow and stared at Bones; he looked tired, but not overly careworn. In a pale voice, Jim said, "That bad?"

Bones rolled his eyes. "No, you little drama queen. It's about twenty to midnight on the twenty-fifth. Which means I still get to wish you a merry Christmas. And I don't get to eat your cookies."

"I have cookies?"

"From the holiday party in Engineering. They put together a plate for you. Real sugar cookies. And gingerbread."

"Don't touch 'em."

"Wouldn't dare," Bones said solemnly, though the light in his eyes was soft. "They'll be right here when you're ready for them, along with the cards you got via subspace. Uhura took the liberty of transferring them to a PADD for you. Anything I can get you right now?"

"Kinda thirsty."

While he sipped the water Bones handed him, Jim tried to piece together what must have happened after he'd lost consciousness … a day ago. Wow.

As if sensing his confusion, Bones said, "I repaired everything soon after we got back to the ship, but you needed time to heal. Bodies know what they need; yours needed sleep. You had a buildup of air in your chest due to the pneumothorax – the punctured lung. You were out cold when I inserted the chest tube. It's out," he added quickly when Jim looked up from his bendy straw. "Both the excess air and the tube. Chapel says you were with us for a little while this afternoon, but she doesn't think you were fully cognizant. Kept asking her if she'd seen your mittens anywhere, apparently. And also that you had a secret." He raised an eyebrow.

"Don't remember any of that," Jim said honestly. "Did I say what my secret was?"

"If you did, Chapel's keeping it for you. But don't be too surprised if you get a pair of mittens as a belated Christmas present."

"Mittens," said Jim, at a complete loss.

"In any case," Bones went on, "I'll clear you for light duty tomorrow. You'll be on crutches for a couple of days. Don't wanna hear any complaining … though I imagine I will."

"I'll be good," Jim promised graciously as he sank back. He didn't think he ought to be tired after all that sleeping, but he was. "I'll try, anyway. I take it Spock made it back okay."

Bones shrugged as he took the empty cup from Jim's lax fingers. "Seemed fine last time I saw him, no signs of hypothermia or frostbite. He'll tell you Vulcans are hardier stock than humans – and, just between you and me, he's probably right. If he needed any defrosting, I imagine Uhura took care of that. So … what's with the look?"

"What look?"

"That big, dopey grin on your face. Doesn't have something to do with your mysterious secret, by any chance, does it?"

"Wasn't aware I was grinning." And he hadn't been, though he supposed it was only natural for a man to grin broadly when he was full of good drugs and honey and soap bubbles and light, and when Bones was looking at him like that. Like he thought Jim was kind of nuts, but loved him despite it. Or because of it. Didn't matter. His head lolling against the pillow, Jim said, "Got something to tell you, as it happens. But I gotta wait. I'm so stoned right now, you wouldn't believe me. And I want you to believe me. Bones?"

"Yeah, kid?" Bones leaned forward. If he would only lean just a little closer, and if Jim's limbs weren't suddenly so heavy, he could touch those lips again. He _really_ wanted to touch them again. With his own lips. And his tongue. Wanted to lick them open and explore everything behind them: the warm breath, the smooth tongue, the silken roof of his mouth. Wanted to feel those lips – eventually, of course – on his dick as well. And…

"Kid? I think you're fading out on me."

"Had a good Christmas," Jim murmured. "Best Christmas I ever had, in fact. 'Cause nobody died, and I was with you."

_And I figured something out. Two somethings._

_Three_ somethings: sleeping with someone who could – and did – declare him medically unfit for duty did not violate his personal code of ethics. Also: yeah, technically, Bones was his subordinate, but come on. It occurred to Jim that Bones surely had his own code of ethics; they'd work around that somehow.

"That's your criteria?" Bones was saying, eyebrow cocked, amusement in his hazel eyes. "That's pretty pathetic, if you don't mind my saying."

"Yup," said Jim, not sure which statement he was agreeing with. "Bones?"

"Yeah?"

"You can have a cookie. S'many as you want."

"They're yours. I've had plenty. I _did_ manage to tear myself from your side in the past twenty-four hours."

"Really?" Jim was momentarily disappointed.

"Amazing. You know, for a man who'd rather eat a plate of _gagh_ than keep a doctor's appointment…"

Now Jim could feel the grin spilling across his face. He could feel himself falling backward as well, but he knew the landing would be soft this time, that someone would catch him. His eyes fluttered closed. "Hey, Bones?"

"Yeah?"

"I mean it, don't freak out later when I tell you I love you." In the silence that followed, Jim was vaguely concerned that what he'd said was not, in fact, what he'd meant to say.

But he was melting into the mattress. And Bones had taken his hand and was holding it between his two broad palms. And it was hard to tell because he was so tired, and yeah, fading out was the right description, but it sounded like Bones was saying, "Okay, darlin'. Promise."

The very last thing Jim was aware of was the brush of lips against his brow, soft as falling snow.

12/2/09


End file.
